


Surrounded by People Who Fight For People To Like Them

by orphan_account



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, Pikey, im so sorry, its really bad, petekey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-07 19:59:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4276068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete Wentz is a boxer, a 3 time gold medal winner for Team Brazil in the Olympics, who channels pent up anger into strong right hooks.<br/>Mikey Way is a cyclist at the Olympics for the first time, who drinks far too much Lucozade to be healthy, and wears hats larger than his face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> for tumblr user ierosass

"You're late" Travie's heavy voice rang through the phone.

Pete winced, running a hand over his head, fingers knotting in his hair, then pausing to pull his hand back and pinch the bridge of his nose. "I'm aware." He drawls, thin Portuguese accent breaking the thick morning air. "Not my fault, Travie baby. Alarm didn't go off. I'll be there in ten"

A heavy sigh is heard over the line, but Pete's thumb had already hit the end call button, buckling up his jeans. Being an Olympian was hard. Pete was never one for early mornings.

He meets Travis by the training arena, greeting his agent with a tired smile, grunting as his kitbag was pushed into his arms. "Charmed, really."

He gets an eye roll in return.

Practice is good. Two gloves, a punchbag, and bottled thoughts give a really good session. Not too bad.

Not too bad.

After that, the rest of his day is freed up. Pete decides just to go around the athlete's village, earphones pushed in, arms on show as he really didn't want to wear his Team Brazil jacket, therefore had to wear his Team Brazil tank top, which was a little too snug for Pete's liking. Sunglasses were the perfect disguise for peoplewatching. Pete had a running theory of pretty much everyone in the village. He reckoned that the kid from Russia was gonna get laid by one of the people from Team Mexico, which, hey, good for him. He was pretty sure the Archers were planning to shoot each other, too. Very Hunger Games-esque.

He jumps out of his thoughts as a hand curls over his shoulder, and wheels around, hissing a curse

The culprit was a guy with a hat that looked far too large for his head, sunglasses balanced carefully on his nose, and a small mouth that split open with a massive grin once they locked eyes. A large TEAM USA was printed blatantly on his chest

Despite the fact that Pete was giving him his very best come-any-closer-to-me-and-i'll-rip-your-intestines-through-your-nose-kid glare.

"Are you that guy who got pulled last year because you took off your glove and broke that guys jaw?" The TEAM USA kid asked. Ah, good times. Too much pent up anger.

"Yes, that's me" Pete murmured after a while of staring at this guys dumb arms. 

"Really? So, like, Peter, right? Wentz?"

"I prefer Pete" 

"Got it. I'm Mikey Way."

“Cool.”

Pete turned away before he could say anything else, and when he risks a glance back, the kid is gone. The last thing Pete can deal with right now is a fan. Especially a fan with a heavy, drawling east-coast American accent, oh no.

He starts as his wrist is grabbed, blinks and turns to see USA kid with his hand curled tight around the tattoos creeping up his arms. “Did it hurt?”

Pete looks slightly startled, like a deer caught in the headlights. “Com…did what hurt?” He asks.

“When you fell from heaven?”

Pete's eyebrows raised significantly, and then Mikey's trotting off to this woman calling for him in a sickinengly heavy American accent.

Shit.

**

Pete has his semi-finals. He does well, he makes it to the finals by thinking of Ashlee, and how she hurt him.

Mikey's there at the edge of the ring, and Pete only notices when he spits out his gumshield and leaves the arena with a towel over his neck.

He's grinning like a idiot, like he knows he's on Pete's mind.

Fuck you, Mikey Way, who cycles for Team USA.

 


	2. I Just Know, And I'm Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> why am I still writing this

It really is very wrong. Very wrong, and Mikey knows it, and goddamn, he's such a creeper, but he can't help it.

Wentz is in his thoughts again, twisting his way through every nook and cranny of his mind, filling it up and numbing him up. 

Maybe it was the migraine.

Who knew?

All Mikey knew was that he had to make Pete Wentz of Brazil smile for him. Or at him. Either or. And not just a small, polite, 'I’m trying not to break you' smile, but a genuine smile. A real smile.

**

"Hey." Fuck this, not again. Pete turns to see a different hat, still large, this time shoved backwards over his small head instead of forwards. It didn't make much sense, because the sun was glaring down on them with a merciless heat, but Pete wasn't about to question it. Maybe the kid wanted a forehead tan, or something.

"Hi." Pete replied blandly, turning to Travie and beginning to just talk to him about nothing. Weird facts about moths, his favourite colour, tattoos. So that maybe, if Pete were to be lucky, Mikey would leave. The last thing Pete needs, as he's said, and been told many times before, is that he does not need, and cannot use distractions. He loathed them. They pulled him away from focus, and pulled him away from all of those destroying, tar like thoughts that weighed down his mind and helped him win.

But when he turned, Mikey was still standing there, a faint smile on his features, eyes flicking across Pete's face. He caves, yet again.

"What do you want?"

"Can I take a picture with you?"

This sent Pete's little game-piece back a few spaces. He blinks, eyebrows creasing. Mikey's reaching into his pocket for his phone, and Pete's eyebrows knit even closer together. 

Mikey looks up, a look of realization crosses his face, and he grins. "So my friends believe I've seen a real life angel." He quips

Pete swears to god that he nearly punches him. He smiles tightly instead. “I'd get my picture taken with McCoy, if you wanted an angel.”

Travie looks up from his phone with a sunny smile. “Awh, Pete-”

“Can I get your number, at least?” Mikey cuts Travie off.

Pete looks him up and down. He was lanky, had long, fairly muscled legs, eyes full of hope, hair just falling to the side of his face.

He stayed still, for a second, just surveying Mikey. He was a distraction, but a damn pretty one.

“Fine, whatever.” He grunts, grabbing Travie's pen and Mikey's arm, scrawling out his number on the soft skin. He releases him, then turns on his heel to drag Travie back to the villa.

“Pete-” His mentor starts. Pete throws a hand up to cut him off. “I know. He's not a distraction. I promise.”

“I wasn't going to say that. Just...take it easy. Alright? You're twenty nine. You need to look after yourself.” He tells him.

Pete only scowls in return.

**

_hi oscar the grouch :)_

Pete's phone blinks at him. He looks over, checks the messages, and scowls at the screen.

_I'm not green and I don't live in a trash can. What do you want?_

he finds himself subconsciously waiting for the next small 'ping!'

_hang out w/ me??? nervous 4 semifinals cum wish me good luck or smthn_

it took Pete a second to decode Mikey's message, but he soon tapped out a reply.

_If I must. Where are you?_

_@ the cycling ring duhh_

Pete found himself smiling. Just because of his own sheer stupidity.

_Sure whatever. I'll come along._

_**_

“You came!” Mikey exclaimed, in his stupidly ridiculously tight cycling...thing. Pete presses his lips into a thin line.

“I did say I would come.”

“Yeah, but I didn't think you'd actually-”

“I'm a man of my word.” Pete said sharply.

Mikey only smiled wider. Pete swore if his smile got any bigger, his face would split in two.

“So you'll watch?” Mikey chirrups after a moment or two of silence.

“Yes, Mikey, I'll watch.” Pete sighs. Mikey beams impossibly wider, and darts off. Pete goes to take a seat at the sidelines, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, calling 'good luck!' after him.

**

Mikey gets through to the finals, coming second.

“Do you always come second, or is this just with me?” Pete's grinning as Mikey comes out in sweatpants and a mucky grey colour shirt. He's not even trying to hide it. Mikey processes this for a second, sort of startled by Pete's massive, all teeth horse grin. Then- “Hey! Get your mind outta the gutter.” He was shoved. Pete just laughed.

Mikey beamed. “So this is what you look like when you're not hating innocent people like me.”

“Hm. Your accent is dry and grating, you're god damn annoying, and cute as hell. I have every right to hate you.”

“ _My_ accent is grating?”

“Excuse _me?_ What's that supposed to mean? Portuguese is a beautiful language-”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. It's just funny when you get butthurt.”

Pete blinked. “Butt…..Buttwhat?”

Mikey cackled.

**

“So tell me your story.” Mikey said, when they were sitting on the edge of Mikey's patio that night.

“There isnt much to tell.”

“Thn you won't take up too much of my time.”

“You're an asshole.”

“Totally. Spit it out, dude.”

“Alright. Well, I live in Brazil, which is cool I guess. I started boxing classes when I was seven, and I was pretty good. Then, my mom left. I was so upset, and...and angry, so I channeled it all into boxing. And I got better. But bad shit kept happening to me. I nearly retired when I met my wife. She was...”

Pete let out a soft sigh, knocking his feet together.

“Beautiful. Inside and out. She kept me balanced. So I thought well hey, time to hang up the boxing gloves, right? And then..”

Mikey looked over at him, saw a sort of clouded look on his features. As if he were trying to surpress the memories, instead of recall them.

“Ad then it collapsed. Dream team fucking died, she left me because I was too energetic, too wild, I wasn't ready to settle down. Because I channelled the dark thoughts into energy, fucking around with my friends, throwing fireworks at Dirty, because it took it away, sometimes. But then she was gone, so I channelled it back into punches and just…hurting other people so _I_ didn't hurt so much. Y'know? And I get medals and stuff for it now.”

Mikey was still looking at him. Pete glanced round so they met eyes, and quickly turned his attention to the blade of grass he was rolling between his fingertips. “That's hard man. I'm sorry.” Mikey offered, looking back into the setting sun.

“What about you?” He asks, softly.

“Not much to tell either.”

“Fuck you. Spit it, Way.”

  
“Aw, Jeez, you touch hearts. I just liked cycling. I did it every night. I dropped everything and risked it all to get here. I was doing so well. I coulda got a Ph.D. in engineering. Biomechanical.”

“I don't know what that means.”

“Like, living engineering.”

“Okay. And you didnt?”

“Nope. Risked it all for cycling. I'm damn lucky I got in.”

They were silent, for a moment. Pete spoke up. “You're god at cycling.”

“Thanks.” Mikey said. More silence.   
Pete broke it once more. “We should kiss, or someth-”

He was cut off by Mikey's lips being pushed against his.

**

“Again?” Gerard sounded vaguely exasperated.

“What do you mean 'again?'” Mikey raised an eyebrow.

“You've always had a thing for fighting kids. Don't you remember you used to sneak into the Taekwondo classes at the leisure center so you could kiss and tell that Tyler kid.”

“Hey, fuck you. I really like Pete. He's just...he fits, y'know?”

“Yeah, I know. It's what you always say. Just tell him if he hurts you, I'm gonna put my fist up his ass.”

“He might be into that.” Mikey grins.

“Fuck you.”

**

 


End file.
